Possession

by Tori Carrington

  THE NOPD HAD BEEN watching her house.

  Akela paced down the length of the Eighth District station hall and back again, recalling the times she’d felt as if she was being watched, the times she’d written the sensation off as something coming from within rather than without, the times she’d thought Claude, himself, might have been watching her. Instead it had been an undercover officer with the NOPD.

  And now Claude was in jail.

  She finally spotted Alan Chevalier walking to his office and headed in the lead detective’s direction, battling back both guilt and indignation.

  “What’s the deal with having me watched?” she demanded, entering his office behind him then slamming the door.

  The rumpled homicide detective shrugged out of his overcoat and hung it on the back of his door.

  “Interestingly enough, I was doing it for your safety.”

  Akela crossed her arms.

  “After you were taken hostage, I figured it would be a good idea to keep an eye on you, make sure you were safe.”

  “No, you used me as bait.”

  His barely concealed smile told her she was right. “And I caught a big one, didn’t I?”

  “And you’ve made a big mistake.”

  He checked some papers on his desk, then looked at her. “No, Agent Brooks, I’d say you’re the one who’s made the mistake.”

  “Tell me this, Alan. What will the court of public opinion make of the evidence you chose to ignore in your one-track mission to pin this murder on Lafitte?”

  “I didn’t have to pin anything on him. He did it.”

  “Then you won’t have a problem with my going to the prosecutor with the information that Claire Laraway was having an affair with a married lover who obviously wasn’t happy with some things she’d been doing—like talking to his wife, and sleeping with another man.”

  Alan’s hands tightened on the back of his chair.

  “Or how about the fact that there’s a key piece of evidence that doesn’t belong to either the victim or Lafitte that was found in the victim’s wound, possibly placed there on purpose?”

  She didn’t miss his smirk. “Sex has made you go soft in the head, Brooks. What’s to say Lafitte didn’t plant that evidence himself?”

  “Awfully premeditated for a crime of passion, isn’t it?”

  Akela’s throat tightened as everything she’d been afraid would happen was unfolding right in front of her eyes. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  “How long have you been meeting the suspect in private?”

  “How long have you been watching me?”

  He waved a hand. “Since you were set free.”

  Oh, God…

  “But only at night. We figured that was probably when Lafitte might make contact.” He opened then closed a drawer. “Besides, the department couldn’t afford more than that.”

  Relief flooded Akela’s tense muscles.

  He grinned at her. “From what I understand, we got some interesting videotape last night, though.”

  The relief vanished…and in its place came a thought.

  “Where are you going?” Chevalier demanded.

  She spared him a look. “You wouldn’t be interested because it has nothing to do with building a case against Lafitte.”

  AKELA STOOD in the middle of the street where everything had begun six short days earlier: Bourbon Street in the French Quarter. In the exact spot where she’d literally bumped into Claude Lafitte. Before she’d known who he was. Before he’d become a suspect in Claire Laraway’s murder. Before he’d opened up a world to her she’d never known existed.

  Her cell phone vibrated. She checked it to find Chevalier trying to reach her. She ignored him.

  It was hard to remember they were working for the same team. Of course, Chevalier didn’t have the personal interest in the case that she did. And she understood that he believed Claude had seduced her toward the end of gaining her trust and faith. And, truth be told, a part of her wondered if that was, in fact, the case.

  But as a trained federal agent, she’d learned to trust her gut instincts. And her instincts in this case told her that Claude Lafitte was one hundred percent innocent of the crime of which he was accused.

  A case of her heart ruling her head?

  Perhaps.

  But she’d operated so hard, for so long, with only her head that she had to give her heart—and Claude—a chance, no matter the consequences.

  She walked a few steps, visually scanning the businesses around Hotel Josephine. She noticed the young owner was standing just outside the front door to her establishment, wearing a white linen dress that should have made her look plain, instead clinging to her curvy body in all the right places. She crossed her arms over her chest, watching Akela with hooded interest.

  Her cell phone vibrated again. Out of habit, she checked it, expecting to see the detective trying to contact her again. Instead it was her mother.

  She answered on the third ring.

  “I cannot believe you brought a known fugitive—a murderer—into our house,” Patsy Brooks said in an even tone.

  “Mother, I can’t talk to you now.”

  “What do you want me to do, Akela Lynn? Schedule an appointment to speak with my own daughter?”

  A car honked its horn. Akela stepped out of the way to let it pass, her gaze continuing to take in her surroundings. “No, Mother, that’s not necessary.”

  “Then do you mind explaining to me what happened here this morning?”

  “What happened is that I’m a grown woman and I had a guest over.”

  “A guest? Is that what they’re calling killers now?”

  “Claude isn’t a killer.”

  “According to whom? I knew the instant I saw him coming down the stairs who he was, Akela. He kidnapped you, for God’s sake! And you let him into our house. Allowed him contact with my granddaughter.”

  Akela’s gaze settled on what she was looking for. Bingo.

  “Don’t worry, Mother. Daisy and I will be moving out by month’s end.”

  Silence. Then, “You can’t.”

  “Why can’t I?” Akela asked as she stepped across the street from the Hotel Josephine, her gaze on something attached to the roof of a popular bar. “Look, Mother, you understood that I moved back not because of financial concerns—my job pays me well—but for issues having to do with family. And you said you didn’t have a problem with treating me like an adult.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. The first time I do something as an adult and you’re taking me to task for it.” She heaved a sigh. “Look, I really can’t have this conversation right now. I’ll talk to you when I get home.”

  She disconnected the call just as a young man in a waiter’s uniform came out of the business she stood in front of.

  “This camera,” she said, pointing to the object in question. “Is it running all the time?”

  He nodded.

  She flashed her ID. “Can you go get your boss for me, please?”

  ALAN CHEVALIER sat back in his office chair, feet up on his desk, lighting a cigar from a box he kept reserved for special occasions. His co-workers were crowded into the small space and spilled out through the open door, talking about Lafitte’s arrest and the end to a case that had garnered the station more than a little unwanted attention.

  Not to mention the attention Alan, himself, had gotten from his immediate superior, Captain Seymour Hodge, who had made it clear that if Alan didn’t catch the Quarter Killer, his fifteen-year career was dead.

  He stared at the glowing end of his cigar, trying to recapture the triumph he’d felt when he’d slapped the handcuffs on Jean-Claude Lafitte’s wrists, but it eluded him; instead Akela Brooks’s accusations trailed through his mind.

  He was aware of the trace evidence found on the victim pointing to a third person being in that hotel room. Was aware and had purposely ignored it in light of no other evidence pointing to another
suspect. Was what she’d said true? Could Claire Laraway have been dating a married man and begun making life miserable for her lover?

  He thought of the reason his job had been ceaselessly on the line for the past ten months, more specifically, the instant his superior’s estranged wife had let her husband know in a very public display of anger that she and Alan had had sex.

  He better than anyone knew the ends a spurned or vengeful lover could go to in order to reap her revenge. Or, if Akela was right and the married man might have committed the crime, his revenge.

  “Hey, Lieutenant, does this mean you’re going to have time to get your clothes pressed at the cleaners and buy a razor?” one of the junior detectives called out.

  The room filled with laughter.

  “Better yet, I think we should all chip in and buy him an iron.”

  The men began taking dollar bills out of their pockets and flinging them at his desk.

  Alan grinned and rocked back slightly in his chair.

  The room suddenly fell silent. He saw why when Captain Seymour Hodge, District Commander, appeared in the middle of the sea of people that had parted.

  “Chevalier. In my office. Now.”

  Hodge left and Alan sat for a long moment, his co-workers’ uneasy attention on him. He puffed absently on his cigar, then let his feet drop to the floor.

  “Uh-oh. Looks like more trouble in paradise,” one of the detectives said.

  Nobody laughed at that crack as Alan snuffed out his cigar in an ashtray, then got to his feet. He had the feeling this wasn’t going to be pretty.

  He got a flash of just how ugly things were going to get when he rapped on Hodge’s door then stepped inside the office to find Akela Brooks and the city prosecutor, Bill Grissom, standing alongside the stone-faced captain.

  20

  AKELA FELT as if she was back in law school replaying that mock trial she had lost all those years ago when she’d tried to prove the innocence of an accused man.

  Only now there was nothing mock about what was happening. And the defendant wasn’t some fictional character, but Claude, who was even now sitting behind bars with her as his only hope of ever being on the other side of them.

  “Come in, Detective,” Captain Hodge said.

  The captain was maybe two, three years older than Chevalier. And as a result of some of the in-station investigating she’d done, she understood that the two men had been friends. Once. A place they would never get back to again, if past events were an accurate indicator. That’s what happened when you made the mistake of getting friendly with a man’s estranged wife.

  Akela had relied on the bad blood to set the stage for what she’d already shown to the prosecutor, Bill Grissom, and Captain Seymour Hodge.

  Alan closed the door after himself. “What’s going on?”

  “Agent Brooks has just been sharing some interesting information with us.”

  Akela stood with her hands clasped behind her back as the detective stared at her.

  “Yes, well, has Agent Brooks also filled you in on the fact that she and Lafitte have had personal relations?”

  Grissom cleared his throat. “Yes, she has.”

  “But that’s not why we’re here,” Akela said quickly, not wanting to relive one of the most difficult hours of her life.

  She’d known she would be facing an uphill battle when she’d called the prosecutor and the captain and asked to meet with them jointly, mainly because her first item of business would be to address the rumors of her and Claude’s personal association. Only they weren’t just rumors. They were the truth.

  As was Claude’s innocence.

  She released her hands from behind her back. “What is at issue is the way this investigation was run from the moment the suspect now in custody was found outside the victim’s hotel room.”

  Alan cracked a smile. “You mean the moment you tried to apprehend the suspect and he took you hostage?”

  “Keep quiet, Chevalier,” the captain said.

  Akela took that as her cue. “First, there was the blind eye turned to crime scene evidence—namely, the presence of trace evidence linking a third person to the scene.”

  “The hair sample,” the prosecutor said, nodding.

  “Yes,” Akela said, warming to her subject. “Next, there was the fact that the victim was involved with someone who had motive for wanting her dead.”

  Alan rolled his eyes. “This is all circumstantial.”

  The captain stared at him. “Let the woman speak.”

  “Why? So she can make a case for her lover?”

  Grissom said, “No, so she can free an innocent man from jail.”

  Akela felt a spark of hope and quickly continued. “And last, but certainly not least, there’s the videotape I’ve secured of the hotel from that morning.”

  Alan looked at her. “What videotape?”

  She stepped to the side to reveal a media unit set up in the corner. “Something the detective said this morning made me consider an angle I hadn’t before. Namely that while the Hotel Josephine didn’t have a security camera running the morning of the murder, that neighboring businesses might have.” She picked up a remote, pushed the button to switch on the television, then started a video playback. “This is footage I obtained from a bar across the street from the hotel.”

  The image was grainy at best, but it was clear enough to show that the wide-angle camera lens had a clean shot of Bourbon Street and of the hotel, a timeline clock running in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. They watched as Claude came out of the hotel, walking in the direction he’d been going when Akela had run into him.

  Alan snorted. “That only places the suspect at the scene.”

  Akela held up a hand, then pushed the pause button. “What else does it show, Detective?”

  Alan stepped closer to the television set. “Nothing.”

  “Look a little closer.”

  There, in a second-floor window was the victim herself, very much alive, opening the window and leaning out, apparently smiling, using a sheet to cover herself.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Alan muttered under his breath.

  Grissom said, “So that leaves the victim alive when Lafitte left the hotel that morning, supporting his claim.”

  Alan swiveled around. “He must have forgotten something and gone back.”

  “What?” Captain Hodge asked. “Did he forget to kill her?”

  Akela pushed the button for the video to continue. A figure in a black raincoat, hat and gloves entered the hotel. From that angle, and given the distance of the shot, it was hard to tell if it was a man or a woman. But what was very clear was that the guest was temporary, going into the hotel, then leaving some minutes later, very obviously in a hurry.

  Akela pressed Pause again. “That, gentlemen, is our Quarter Killer.”

  “Oh, come on,” Chevalier said. “You can’t buy this load of crap. The killer is in jail as we speak.”

  “No he’s not,” Captain Hodge said. “I’ve put an order through to release him.”

  “What? You can’t be serious?”

  The prosecutor rubbed his chin. “He’s very serious.” He shrugged. “In light of the evidence Agent Brooks has produced, in addition to other details she has meticulously charted, there’s not enough for me to prosecute Jean-Claude Lafitte for the murder of Claire Laraway.”

  “LAFITTE!” barked a guard.

  Claude glanced toward the iron bars across the room to find the uniformed officer opening the door. He got up, not looking forward to appearing in front of a judge. The proceeding would only make everything that much more real.

  “Has my attorney arrived?” he asked the officer as he held out his hands to be cuffed.

  The officer ignored him, closed the door, then stepped down the hall toward the booking room.

  Claude followed, staring at his uncuffed hands.

  The officer stood at a counter, filling in some paperwork he then pushed in Claude’s dire
ction. “Sign here.”

  Claude looked at the documentation. “Is this something my attorney should see first?”

  “You’re being sprung, Lafitte. If I were you, I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, boy.”

  Claude quickly read over the document, discovering that it was, indeed, a release form.

  He signed it.

  “Here.” The officer handed him a large Ziploc bag that apparently held his personal articles, then he motioned toward the door. “You’re free to go.”

  Claude emerged from the county lockup, blinking at the bright midday sun where it hung high in the sky. One word, and one word only came to mind—or, more specifically, a name. Akela.

  21

  CLAUDE FOUND IT hard to believe that nearly two weeks had passed since he’d been released from custody with no formal charges brought against him related to Claire’s murder. His own attorney had been surprised by the move and hadn’t been able to explain it, but had counseled Claude not to get too comfortable, if only because the actual murderer had yet to be arrested.

  What intrigued Claude more was that the past fourteen days had been more difficult than the time he’d spent on the run and in the county lockup, mostly because he’d gone without seeing Akela.

  He paddled his well-worn, handmade kayak over the bayou waters, watching as a cottonmouth snake eased along the surface a few feet away and a kingfisher flew overhead. There didn’t seem to be a minute that went by that he didn’t think about her—remember her quiet moans…the taste of her essence on his tongue…the vision of her lying in bed next to him, her soft skin against his…and wonder if he’d ever have the chance to touch her again.

  He’d thought about calling her to at least thank her for doing whatever she had to spring him. Though she hadn’t completely cleared his name, she done enough to gain him his freedom so he might further investigate the case himself to ensure he never saw the inside of a lockup again. Now that he once again had access to his financial resources, and his purchase of Lafitte’s Louisiana Boats and Tours was complete, he had two private investigators checking into Claire Laraway’s past, trying to determine who would want to kill her and leave him to hang for the crime.